Chapter 9 - The Harbor of Savannah
The winter of 2026 arrived in Savannah with a quiet, beautiful stillness. The salt marshes were a deep, golden brown, the oak trees heavy with Spanish moss that hung like gray lace over the quiet water of the river.
I stood on the deck of Grandpa Arthur’s old boat, the Savannah Star, which we had fully restored and docked at the marina near the historic district. The air smelled of salt, of clean water, and of the sweet, heavy scent of the pine woods nearby.
Mackenzie Harmon—now a freshman at Columbia University, visiting the South for her winter break—sat on the wooden bench near the bow, her copy of Middlemarch open in her lap, her dark hair flying in the warm coastal breeze.
"Julian," she called out, looking up from her book with those bright, clear eyes. "The river is so beautiful today. It looks like a painting."
"It is, Ken," I said, walking over and leaning my hands on the wooden rail. "Grandpa Arthur spent fifty years on this water. He used to say that the river always knows where it’s going. It doesn't care about the rocks; it just finds the low ground and keeps moving."
"I like that," she said, her smile warm and genuine. "My dad says the same thing about the trucks. They just keep rolling."
"Your father is a builder, Ken," I said. "And builders always find a way to clear the road."
Nicholas Harmon, my senior business partner and the founder of Apex Property Solutions, stepped out of the cabin, holding two cups of warm cider. He was wearing his comfortable flannel shirt, his jeans, and his leather boots—the ones that had seen real use, but were now clean and oiled.
"The wind’s rising, Julian," Nicholas said, handing me a cup. "We should start the engines before the tide turns."
"The tide is already turning, Nicholas," I said, looking out over the water, where the gold dome of the Savannah custom house was reflecting the setting sun.
My phone, sitting in my pocket, gave a quiet, single buzz.
I pulled it out. It was a notification from the trust’s educational fund.
The tuition payment for Chase’s new business certification course at Georgia State had cleared. He had enrolled in the night school, paying fifty percent of the cost from his dispatcher salary, while the trust covered the remaining portion as a "merit-based scholarship."
I smiled, a tiny, warm line appearing at the corner of my mouth.
"He’s doing the work, Julian?" Nicholas asked, his voice soft, a knowing look in his eyes.
"He’s doing the work, Nicholas," I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket. "He’s working forty hours a week, and he’s earning his own way. He’s finally found his place."
"And your father?"
"He’s quiet," I said. "He’s working as a junior estimator for a local contractor. He’s not a king anymore, Nicholas. But he’s starting to be a man."
"That’s the only thing that lasts, Julian," Nicholas said, clinking his cup against mine. "The work."
"The work," I repeated.
May you like
We turned the key, and the engines of the Savannah Star hummed to life, a deep, powerful rumble that vibrated through the old timbers of the hull. We backed out of the slip, the water churning white and clear behind us, and turned our bow toward the open ocean.
The sun was setting over the marshes, throwing a long, golden road across the water, a road that was wide, clear, and entirely ours to travel.
